I finally visited the fully renovated East Wing of the National Gallery of Art. They added a lot of useful gallery space and I give whole thing an unreserved thumbs on for practical improvements. For some reason, though, I was in a mood to see paintings by the time I got there. Not just paintings, but traditional paintings. Nineteenth century landscapes with ruins and picturesque peasants. You know the type.
But was making a good faith effort to walk through the galleries and I came out of one space and into another and Lingotto was directly opposite the doorway I passed through and I was instantly struck by a my own little Stendahl episode. There was just something about it. Maybe the ritualistic aspect, the shrine-like quality. But I was just amazed.